


Smell of Cigars on His Sheets

by Pentaphobe



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Loneliness, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7667248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pentaphobe/pseuds/Pentaphobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCree is away and despite all of the things, Symmetra find herself missing his company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smell of Cigars on His Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a fandom switch because why not, but also might be picking up the old bitsies again sometime soon. I've been getting back into the mood for writing.

The was a string of exhaustion weighing on her shoulders when she finally retired to her quarters for a shower. Her mind was far too bloated with senseless thought to properly sit through the debriefing of the next mission that was in succession. She'd fill herself in when the morning sun came. For now, she lumber towards her bed. The neat, properly arranged bed was fit to the point you could bounce a penny off it. Tidy and sleek, and yet it had no appeal.

It looked no more inviting than the complexities of Torbjorn thought of his.. trinkets. For some time, she stood at the foot of her bed. At first, she had done so just to let her hair down from the high bun perched on the top of her head for the shower. Now, she just stared. She hadn't even noticed the disgust that wrinkled in her nose as her eyes cast away.

Why?

This was the better way. Everything was in its place, there was no disarray. No disorder amidst her things, that made her tick in the worst of ways or stirred the urge in her to remedy the wrong that was in whatever was flawed. There was none of this, and yet she could feel the itch that there was something wrong.

It was then she looked down to her bare floor. Beige carpet soft and plush underneath her toes, ending where smooth, seamless tile began and there. There was something missing.

She wouldn't admit it to herself, but her mind recalled the image of the weathered, leather shin-high boots that were usually placed, toe against the wall with the metal spurs lifted to keep from scuffing the floors. One usually slouched over the other and so their length fell in a sideways flap, that she had to learn to just deal with because their owner had done her the respect of placing them neatly somewhere, that was befitting to their size. A chore it was, but that was not the thought she lingered on.

Her mind pulled the image of their owner up again; the grizzly face pulled in one of those wicked loop-sided grins down at her, maddening wayward cut hair pointy in various directions, utterly soft, but firm in her hands. The textures were almost manifesting in her hand and it was then she decided to exit the confines of her room, walking silently through the halls towards a room that wasn't her own.

There she found an unlocked room that she slipped inside before she drew any attention to the direction she was going and rarely ever went. Disappearing into the dark abode. Just two steps inside and her foot ran into something. Luckily nothing hard, but the clunked over into something else that made noise.

Her augmented arm rose and she splayed her fingers, a bright hard light manifesting itself and brightening her surroundings. Welcoming her to the side of clothes of various mute and plain colors scattered all over the floor, spare shoes and spurs here and there, in the corner was a growing line of beer bottles. It was the only neat thing she saw, but before she was too entirely sidetracked by the wreckage of the room. It had been vacant for a week now, but it'd only should have been two days, maybe two and a half if the travel back to the HQ was delayed.

This was unacceptable.

She'd chide Jesse for his absence. There hadn't been even some much as a bit of communication to assure his safety. Him nor the others who had accompanied him on that specific task. She hadn't known when she crossed the room to the bed, but she was there, pressing her palm to the dark sheets that looked like tossed and wrangled. Like its never been made before, but she felt drawn in by what waft from it. Far more inviting than the crisp tan sheets on her bed, she somehow sunk so easily into the ruffled material.

She'd whip the comforter, of course, but after that she just sunk into the bedding. Her head tucked into a warped pillow, molding to the shape of her head. Her eyes closed and she felt a little bit at peace.

A deep breath was taken and she very easily figured out why, the heady scent of leather, crisp soap, expensive latin cigars, and McCree.

That was the most important component. She wouldn't admit it, not aloud. So, instead she quietly buried in the blankets, inhaling. Thoughts instead occupying with how she's chastise him about the mess of his living space and make sure to ask if that was the reason he always found himself in her bed. Anything to besides the desire, the need and feel of his square jaw atop her palm.


End file.
